We sat across the table.
he said, cut off your hands.
they are always poking at things.
they might touch me.
I said yes.
Food grew cold on the table.
he said, burn your body.
it is not clean and smells like sex.
it rubs my mind sore.
I said yes.
I love you, I said.
That's very nice, he said
I like to be loved,
that makes me happy.
Have you cut off your hands yet?
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Comments about this poem (The Friend by Marge Piercy )
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- Today is but tomorrow..., David Lessard
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- At Nights, Madrason writer
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- falling down a well, well, you pushed me, Mandolyn ...
- Indeed, george albot
- Poets, Do You Agree?, Sandra Feldman
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